


Of Seductions and Missing Names

by DictionaryWrites



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Casual Sex, Lack Of Professionalism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 07:11:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2220186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rewrite of the previous fic, of the same title. For my efforts it's doubled in length and improved considerably, I think. Bond attempts to discover Q's actual name (no, in advance, it does not begin with Q.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Seductions and Missing Names

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Of Seductions And Missing Names](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1227943) by [DictionaryWrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites). 



"Why, don’t you want to have sex with me?" Q regards Bond with a sort of faux innocence, his eyebrows raised as he leans back in his chair and plays - quite infuriatingly, Bond might add - with a Biro, letting its pen lid trail over his lips. Christ knows why he even has a Biro to hand. Bond has _seen_ Q's handwriting, and there's something to be said for the youth of today being far too reliant on computer keyboards.

"Yes." Bond grumbles. Oh, _yes_ , he most certainly does. There are half a dozen ways he'd like to have Q, just here in this lab. "But not without a __name__.” His tone is insistent despite his distinct desires.

"I don’t want to tell you my name. Here, I’m Q." The bastard speaks quite simply, conversationally. He seems almost _perplexed_ as to why Bond wishes to know his name, but he knows full well that that's an act. Q is a _terribly_ good actor.

"And at home?" Bond presses.

"With you? Still Q." And God, for a man who looks like a fucking __teenager__ , he is infuriating. Q grins at him, distinctly amused by Bond's complete irritation. Children always _do_ like to push buttons they oughtn't touch.

"For God’s sake! Is that what you want me to moan into your ear? Q?" Bond isn't truly as angry as he most certainly could be, but his tone is sharp; patient man though he is, his patience is being thoroughly sapped. How long have they been arguing this point? Months now, Bond is quite certain.

"You could say " _Quartermaster_ ", though it’s a bit of a mouthful. I could give you a rather different mouthfu-"

"Shut up." Bond says, bluntly interrupting the other man's ridiculous innuendo (at another time, Bond would have readily joined in), and to his credit Q shuts his irritating mouth, looking up at Bond amusedly through the glass of his spectacles. He's very _pretty_ , all in all – Bond is certain half of his handsomeness comes simply from his looking so smug all the time. Even as he considers the thought, though, Q's smug expression fades into a quiet sigh of resignation.

”Fine.” Q looks to the side for a few moments, looking at the floor. Is he relenting? _Finally?_ “Call me Harry.”

"Harry?" Bond repeats, and he stares at the other man for a few seconds. Weeks and weeks of arguing for _that_? Bond is disappointed. "Your name is __Harry__?”

"Of course not.” Q says, and his lip twitches: the smugness has returned. _Bastard._ “But if you want a name to call out in bed, you _can_ say Ha-"

"That’s not the point." Bond says irritably, dropping into a chair and hiding his face in his hands. He doesn't know _why_ he wants the other's name so badly – he knows Mallory's, he knows Moneypenny's, he knows all of the other 00's names. He'd known the names of his previous Quartermasters, but he hadn't slept with any of them. "What is _wrong_ with you?" He sits back, regarding Q with a scowl - and he is not __pouting__ , thank you very much.

"Nothing - you can look at my psych file, if you like. I’d say it’s rather a lot better than yours." Q retorts, looking rather like a man ready to _accuse_ Bond of _pouting._ He is smirking a little even now, and Bond hates it. The first time the other man had flirted with him, pressed Bond against the wall with his slender hand spread over the other's tie, he'd been _delighted._ Now? All delight has faded quite away.

"You are prepubescent." Bond complains, curling his lip once again. He's never wanted to strangle a fellow employee so terribly badly. Worst of all, Q would probably like it if he tried.

"And here you are trying to coax me into bed. You deviant, you." Q says dryly. His arms cross neatly over his chest, and Bond despises his ugly cardigans, his uglier shirts. Bond would like to take them off – why had he run himself into this circle of being so terribly _stubborn_?

"Shut up."

"Look." Q stands and moves closer while Bond looks across the room to keep from punching him, and then he is in Bond’s __lap__ , and surprisingly heavy he is, too. Q's arms are slow in moving around his neck, and then his clever hands play over Bond's neck. Charming, charming, but Q is still quite _heavy_ – and he looks so slender, too. “You don’t need my name. You’ll do absolutely fi-“

"How much do you weigh?" Q’s seductive expression abruptly dissipates, and he stares down at Bond.

"What?" He asks, tone crisp. Bond seems to have touched a _nerve_ with that one. He feels some satisfaction in making Q all but _snarl_ at him. He schools his expression back swiftly enough, true, but that makes Bond no less pleased with himself.

Not that Bond isn't almost _always_ pleased with himself.

"You know, you’re just heavier than I expected, but you’re very thin, how much musc-" Bond speaks smoothly, lightly, warmly.

"James Bond: The Great Seducer And now you’re asking if I __work out__.” Q lets out an exasperated noise, and Bond grins a little, hands moving from the base of Q’s thighs up to his hips, hooking into the waistband of his pinstriped trousers.

 _ **Pinstripes**_. Bond had thought barely anyone looked good in pinstripes, but Q _is_ pulling them off. And Bond hopes to pull them off too – ASAP. He'll do it though: he'll get the other's name in some other fashion if not via asking him. There will be papers – true, Q's information has been redacted from all the _physical_ papers on site, and Bond has no chance of hacking into Q's perfectly ordered systms, but there are other ways, outside of MI6, that one might find information.

"Well, asking your _name_ didn’t work out so well for me." Bond says. “I thought I'd settle for your weight.”

"I’m not going to tell you my name." Q says smoothly, and he begins to undo Bond's tie, his fingers sliding quite effectively over the silken fabric.

"I shan't tell you mine, then." Bond says. It's a cheap trick: he knows full well it won't work as soon as he speaks. It is an enjoyable game to play, though.

"Your name is James Bond." Q says, and he slides his hands under the other's shirt and blazer, playing over Bond's nipples with clever thumbs, and Bond lets out a quiet sigh, his head tipping back.

"My __real__ name.” Bond says: Q leans, dragging his lips over Bond’s neck, from the collarbone and up to his ear, where his breath is hot and inviting against the larger man’s skin. Oh, what Bond wouldn't give to sample that mouth right now.

"I have __memorized__ your files. Your real name __is__ Bond.” He murmurs against the shell of the other's ear, and it is not the seduction that Bond had hoped for or wanted. He considers grasping Q by the shoulders and pushing him down onto the floor, but he's reasonably certain Q would bite him somewhere _sensitive_ for attempting to control the situation like that. Q spreads Bond's blazer and shirt to the sides, baring his chest to the air.

"What’s __your__ real name?” Bond asks, quietly.

"I don’t have one." Q murmurs, hands stroking up Bond’s chest once more before he slowly thumbs over the other’s lower lip; Bond enjoys the warm tingle it leaves on the sensitive flesh. "I was grown in a government lab, you know. Never had a real name." It's a joke, but Q can tell a joke so _seriously._

"Is that why all your files are sealed?" Bond asks, chuckling a little. He grabs the other by the back of the head before he can answer, pulling him into a slow kiss. When Q pulls back, he looks gratifyingly ruffled.

"Yes." Q says primly. "Now, joking aside, we should move onto a topic with a little more," Q’s hands go down again, slim, marvellously competent fingers unbuttoning Bond’s trousers. " _ _Substance__.” Bond grins.

"Boys." Q turns, a graceful arch to his neck as he looks at Mallory at the door, and Bond lets out a groan. "Play time is over, Q. Have him later." Mallory says tiredly, looking between the two of them with an obvious exasperation. Q buttons Bond's trousers again.

"Yes, _sir._ " Q says in a light tone, extracting himself from Bond’s lap and moving back to his computer; reluctantly Bond stands, beginning in a reluctant fashion to button up his shirt again. Terribly _disappointing_ , that is.

"Bond, with me." Mallory says, and he looks more ready to quit his job than ever. Bond delights in his own lack of professionalism.

"Yes, sir. I __will__ find out, you know.” He says, turning back and pointing a finger at Q, but the younger man just laughs, head thrown back, as Bond leaves to fall into step beside M.

“Find out what, pray?”

“His _name._ ” M tuts.

"You won’t." Mallory says simply, and his left hand rubs at his temple; a migraine coming on, Bond imagines. Bond does always wonder how people can find the job of keeping men like _him_ in line so rewarding.

"Of course I will." Bond returns easily. His tone is playful, and he winks, but Mallory just shakes his head.

"We’ll have to kill you then." Mallory says, and although the retort is playful it lacks the proper tone.

"Kill me once, shame on you…" Mallory doesn't laugh at that, and looks somewhat disapproving, but Bond does - they drop the subject all the same. Bond _will_ find out, he's quite certain.

\---

Q lets out a gasp when sudden hands are on his hips, but it is an act; he'd been notified as soon as his lab's threshold had been crossed. All the same, this is a role he likes to play - he melts back in Bond's arms, letting out a quiet hum as he felt a drag of lips over his the back of his neck.

"Mallory said if I found out your __name__ , they'd have to kill me." Bond murmurs against the skin, and then he _nips_ at Q's hairline. Charming. Charming man, he is.

"They?" Q repeats, and his tone is teasing. "No. _Me_."

"You'd kill me?” Bond asks, and he puts on a faux point of injury.

" _No one_ knows my name, Bond." That is untrue: Mallory knows his name, as do a select few. But none of those matter, and none of the records reflect the true case.

"You've never killed anyone before." Bond says, tutting. He sounds so very _certain_ of that.

"Haven't I? How do you know?" Q asks, and Bond hums against the other's skin, sucking a slow bruise at the back of his neck as he swiftly unbuttons the other man's shirt. He does it blindly, though Q is far from impressed – he knows full well how good Bond is at things like these.

"I've read your files." Bond says softly, fingers deft and quick and practised on the buttons of the Q's shirt and of his cardigan, bearing the flesh of the other's chest to the cool air. Q allows it, leaning back against him and enjoying the pleasant _warmth_ of his hands. It's quite relaxing, after a day's work, to allow 007 some _play._

"Then you know that so much is __redacted__ that you'd never know if I'd killed someone or not." Q returns, and Bond hums. He sounds not at all convinced.

"Perhaps." His hands stroke down, from Q's chest to his upper arms, down the length of those arms and over his sleeves, and on each side he covers Q's hands, lean and brilliant and quite perfect under Bond's own fingers. "There are other ways one can tell."

Q scoffs, his disbelief obvious enough. "You can't tell."

"I can." Bond murmurs: Q feels that is a promise. "You've never killed anyone. Woman, man, child. You've never so much as hit a _rabbit_ with your car." Q is quiet for a time, pensive, and Bond nips at the back of his neck, dragging his cardigan and his shirt off his shoulders. It is just a _tad_ frustrating when Bond is right.

"You can't tell my name, though." Q points out, willing to enjoy that little victory.

"No." Bond agrees, doing his very best not to betray his own irritation. "You _could_ just tell me."

"If I told you, I'd have to-"

"Isn't that my line?" Q laughs, arching his back into Bond's hand as it strokes down the younger man's spine. It's warm, pleasant: Bond's fingers are calloused but astute.

"I'm not going to tell you." Q says.

"I'll just find out for myself." Bond murmurs, dragging his teeth over the other man's shoulder and drawing a choked sound out of him. That feels _good_ , those teeth, and when Bond does it again he arches, taking in a slow and shuddering breath. "I could torture it out of you, you know."

"I've had the same torture training as every other lab worker here, Bond." Q reminds him, his eyes still closed, and Bond laughs.

"Oh, I know things they wouldn't have trained you for. They worked with __pain__." Q shudders as Bond reaches between his legs, palming Q through his trousers and drawing another strangled noise out of him. Christ, that's good. Very good indeed. "Did they train you for _pleasure_? Did they tell you what to do when you want to come so __badly,__ but your captor is withholding your release? That's the most __exquisite__ torture, Q."

"I know." Q murmurs, tone dreamy as he presses back against the other man, and Bond has to stop himself from drawing away. Because on one hand, he's annoyed, but on the other? Q is warm, and delightful under his hands. "It's one of my __favourites,__ actually, and it's been __so__ long since I've been on the receiving end..."

"Damn it." Bond mutters: Q's laugh is melodic, beautiful to Bond's very ears, and yet the most frustrating thing he's ever heard.

"No interrogation, then?" Q almost sounds disappointed – perhaps one day. Oh, yes.

"I think not. We can still play though." Bond speaks smoothly, and his hands move into the other's trousers, but he doesn't actually _touch_ Q where he wishes to be touched. Not yet. "I __will__ find out."

"Of course you will." Q says, his tone coaxing, amused, and worst of all, unimpressed.

\---

"I have it." Bond hisses into his face, and it is four in the morning and Q only has two hours left before he has to get up and go to work, and Bond has no __right__ to wake him up like this if it isn't with his fucking __tongue__.

" _What_?" Q bites out, tone positively venomous as he fumbles blindly for his glasses, and Bond is grinning in the dark: Q can see his teeth and the glint to his eyes. Twat. Q sighs, pulling the specs on as he slams his hand onto the desk lamp beside his bed - he winces at the sudden light, but Bond just keeps on grinning, looking very much like the cat who'd gotten the cream.

"I have your name." Bond says, and Q lets out a sigh, reaching up to rub at his face and his tired, tired eyes. He should have gone for Alec Trevelyan. _Any_ of the other 00s would be preferable at this point – Hell, Q doubts _Mallory_ would ever wake him up like this.

"Quentin Jones." Bond proclaims too loudly, triumphant. He'd obviously gotten over-excited, and had lacked the intelligence to go with less _haste._

"Is that so? Give me the papers, Bond." Bond does so, handing him the stack of files he'd taken from the carefully protected and hidden safe that Q had thought was well concealed in the base of his freezer - not well concealed enough, it would seem. Not for Bond, anyway. Ah well: there would be time to change that.

"Quentin Jones. Born 9th of June, 1985." Bond's smile fades as he watched Q rifle through the papers, soon removing another birth certificate. "Huw Evans. Born 6th of December, 1985." A third birth certificate follows; "James Kytes, born 9th of May, 1985."

"Do you have __any__ real papers?" Bond looks so irritated, so resigned. Q would almost be pleased if he wasn't so terribly tired.

"Yes, James. But not in my __home__. I'm not an idiot." He passes the folder back and takes his glasses off, folding them and setting them aside before turning the lamp off again. "Put them back and I'll tell you. For God's sake."

"You will tell me?" Bond asks, and he seems suspicious.

"I'll tell you. It's just _stubborness_ , for Christ's sake – an inside joke between Mallory and I." Q mutters, and he relaxes in bed again, pressing his face closely to the blessed warmth of his pillow. Bond returns soon enough, moving into bed and moulding himself against Q's back, hands wrapping about his stomach.

"Tell me." Bond murmurs, replacing the full stop with a kiss to Q's shoulder: perfect punctuation.

"Why is it so important that you know?" The question comes slowly, sleepily, from the Quartermaster's mouth: he'll get this done swiftly enough.

"Indulge me." Q chuckles a little, rolling his backside back against the other's cock and drawing a quiet noise out of the operative.

"Johnathan. John." He says finally, after a significant pause.

" _ _John__. Mmm, __John__." Bond moans the name into Q's ear, and the younger man laughs despite himself, his own hands blanketing Bond's - as best they can, anyway, given the difference in size. "John __Doe__?" Ah. Q ought have expected that.

"John Llwyd." He corrects, in a light tone.

" _ _Llwyd__?"

"I'm Welsh, James, did you not know that? I was born in Wrexham. You can look for the birth record there - which I know you will do. September 6th, 1985." Bond grinned against the other's skin, nipping at the flesh there.

"Why keep it a secret? Just for yours and Mallory's _jokes_?"

"I work at MI6, James. Why do we keep anything a secret?" Q says softly, his tone teasing, but he underlays something a tad _upset._ Bond draws back, worried about having touched on something inappropriate to ask about, as Q knew he would.

"John Llwyd.” Bond says, as a way of changing the subject.

"You're not pronouncing that correctly." Q says.

"Aren't I?" Bond asks, and Q can feel his good mood, feel how much _warmer_ his voice is.

"No. It's an __ll.__ You're making the wrong sound with your tongue. It's Welsh, James, not English." He draws out the hissed sound, tongue against his teeth, and Bond tries to mimic it: he fails miserably.

"So long as I have the name." Q chuckles, closing his eyes and pressing back against Bond, ready for a sleep. Bond would find the records, that much was true, and it __did__ all match up where Q was concerned.

Q would just have to warn Mallory to furnish the right reaction when Bond started teasing him about "John" - it would be something _terrible_ for M to drop Q's carefully built house of cards, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a reminder that my Tumblr user is also dictionarywrites, [commissions are open](http://dictionarywrites.tumblr.com/post/95787169223/check-me-out-on-ao3-my-writing-tumblr-or), and I'm currently running a giveaway. The first prize is a 7500 word fic of your choice from me, the second is a 2000 word piece, and the three runners-up are 500-750 word short fics.  
> [ Here is the link.](http://dictionarywrites.tumblr.com/post/95584589483/thats-right-folks-hi-there-im-dictionary) The draw is going to be on the 15th of September.


End file.
